


Epiphany

by JuneLoveland



Category: Mansfield Park - Jane Austen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 02:20:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21845467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuneLoveland/pseuds/JuneLoveland
Summary: “Indeed, how can one care for those one has never seen?”-- Mansfield Park, Vol. II, Ch. XI
Relationships: Edmund Bertram/Fanny Price
Comments: 14
Kudos: 42
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Epiphany

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vashti (tvashti)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvashti/gifts).



An air of festivity was not something often associated with the stately edifice of Mansfield Park or its immediate environs. Its austere patriarch, Sir Thomas Bertram, was known by all in the demesne’s vicinity as a calm, and not a convivial man. To all observers, all belonging to him shared something of the same mystique, even—lately—his eldest son Tom. That young man’s recent illness had seemed to change him into someone entirely new; where before he had been seen only in his comings and goings out of the country, and known mostly in the tales told in assorted family circles about his various misadventures among the ton, he was now and again glimpsed at church, seen roaming about his father’s estate with a steward or gardener or attorney not far off. Tom, however, was not so completely transformed as the tittle-tattle of Mansfield would have him. In fact, he was almost wholly responsible for the estate’s current elevated attitude. Some may quibble and object that this season if no others brings with it its own cheer, and perhaps some of the responsibility lay at Susan’s, or at Julia’s feet as well. But the most important detail to glean from the author’s waffling over who bore the greatest share of blame in turning Mansfield Park from one place into quite another is that the place did now indeed bear an uncharacteristically merry atmosphere.

*** 

In advance of the Christmas season, Thomas Bertram the younger – that is, Tom – had invited to his father's home some few genial young acquaintance all in a rage for celebrating a holiday with a bit of the old flair of country hospitality. In credit to Tom’s recent brush with eternity, these young people were also accompanied by a worthy older relative or companion of some kind, who might be given the name of chaperon if her charges had been the sort of young people to require regular outside guidance. Luckily for this good Mrs. Sullivan, young Lady Baltimore and Mr. and Miss Pettit were exactly the sort of youth who make for good company, and poor storytelling: charming, eager, and up to everything, but not remarkable in the least. To this promising crew, the Yateses had been added, bustling in early on Christmas Eve morning; their wedded harmony and attaché of children and children’s things was anticipated as adding a welcome patina of fine old English domesticity over the whole scene, right down to Julia’s ever so softly rounded belly. Sir Thomas surveyed the scene at the breakfast table with satisfaction: prepossessing young people in various stages of acquaintance, all showing pleasing interest in each other, and one young woman showing very promising interest in and his son and very proper deference to him and his lady. It was, perhaps, this overwhelming air of homely holiday harmony that had wrested Sir Thomas from the remnants of his solemnity and subdued him into something more approaching cheer.

So subdued him, in fact, that Tom had been allowed to prepare well for his good friend Yates, in ensuring that their arrival would coincide with the mounting of a pantomime performance at Thornton Lacey – his first real outing as producer, though he said so himself, and only to himself. And further in his private reflections did he admit that such an occasion should not be missed by the man who had first fired his theatrical inclinations. Their coming so late, in testament to the difficulties of journeying with a child over eighty miles of indifferent road between Worcestershire and Northampton, had necessitated holding the performance on the Christmas holiday itself, however, the thing had already attracted a great deal of notice in the surrounding neighborhood. This fact of course gladdened his heart and filled it with trepidation in equal measure; any producer worth his salt knows that an audience makes a show complete, but that the whole business would go a lot more smoothly without them, their judging tongues, and their sceptical eyes. Fortunately, our Tom had on hand a natural spring of reassurance, watered in the bosom of his family’s home, and one who was a dab hand at doing the lookings-on and offering assistance into the bargain, so that when he hailed Fanny after breakfast, blithely waylaying her in her route to the hothouse, his grin doing little to mask his tension, she was not alarmed.

“Ah, dear cousin, well met,” he said, gently taking her arm. “Where are you headed?”

“Good morning, Tom. I am off to find what blooms I can to cheer our morning room. My aunt has begun to find the greenery there a little overpowering. I am sure some of our primroses and viburnum will make the room a little more to her taste.”

He considered this briefly, brow slightly wrinkled. “Do you believe our playhouse might benefit from some of the same? I rode over to Thornton Lacey only yesterday to look over the progress; the stage is quite a complete thing, but the innkeeper might have had a heavy hand with the holly boughs, at that. It wouldn’t do to be quite so on the button, after all.” He was speaking only half to her, but Fanny took no offense at his absence; she also took no particular trouble to reply.

The year since Tom’s improvement had begun in earnest had done a great deal to open his mind to her greater comprehension. As the healing of his illness worked similar changes on his mind, she began to understand him better, to appreciate the new maturity in him, and to better bear the flights of adventure and fancy that would always be a part of him. And as she had seen him begin making a friend of her sister, drawing the girl out and making sure to tease and trifle with her, to show her small ways of charming the long days in such a remote country, and seen how delighted these attentions made her sister, Fanny could not but open a little of her own heart to Tom in turn, if not confidentially, then certainly earnestly. The result was more of fellow-feeling between them than either had ever bothered to desire before they knew it was worth having. She could rightly appraise him now as a promising young man, and not feel that her partiality for all things Bertram or her own kind heart had got in the way of the truth. But he had returned to his subject.

“Talking of tomorrow, I did also wonder,” he began hesitantly, seeking her eyes. Fanny turned to meet his expression with equanimity, and he continued. “Considering whether the cat ensemble we fixed up will hold. Charles Maddox is a tall fellow, and his brother rivals him for girth. I am still concerned about the thing bearing up against all their darting and cavorting. It just wouldn’t do to have it all fall apart right there as they’re gambolling across the stage. We want a laugh from the crowd, but only in the right places, eh?”

Fanny found an indulgent smile as she answered, “Indeed, that would be distressing. But I have every confidence that the dress will do its work well. Susan and I both used our best French seams on the ends. If you are really concerned, however, it would be worth having a conversation with the Maddoxes and cautioning them against too much energy, since the two pieces will be on their two backs. If they are careful enough, then there’s no reason it shouldn’t all go very well.”

Her words, and her confidence in them, were true enough, but Fanny confessed to herself that their comforting import had worn a little thin from repetition. A natural listener, a generous advisor, and a sitting duck, she had come in for the greatest share of Tom’s anxieties, fears, and complaints about his hastily assembled company, moderated only by his sense of the credit that was due to him as a producer. He had learned to appreciate Fanny’s counsel, and had no scruples of shyness or strangeness to keep from availing himself of it. As usual, a sincere, though insubstantial, chat with Fanny seemed to relieve him greatly. His smile was genuine as he loitered by her side in the hothouse, and offered to cart her blooms to the morning room for her, before heading off to consult with Lady Baltimore about her preferred seating arrangement. “And to bend Edmund’s ear once more about the podium. He returns to Thornton Lacey shortly; he should be able to stop in at the inn and make sure something’s been set up.”

Our Fanny, finding herself not wanted after delivering her bounty, took to a short path heading out of the garden toward what passed for a wilderness at Mansfield. The path used also to lead to Aunt Norris’s cottage, and Fanny’s mind flew to her. They’d had a letter from Aunt Norris not a fortnight ago, or Lady Bertram had, sharing the sights and scenes of their situation in Cornwall, reporting them each in good spirits, and sending vague expressions of Maria’s love. Maria herself never wrote, but her love was delivered regularly via her aunt’s active nature. In this last letter, however, love came from Aunt Norris as well to each of them at Mansfield, even to Fanny, even to Susan. That had surprised Fanny at the time when her aunt told her of it, and she wondered at it, whether the nature of Aunt Norris’s love had the power to touch her, and whether she understood much about communicating love herself. Rote tidings made on Maria’s behalf had carried nothing to her, but for some reason she felt certain that her aunt had truly meant to convey warmth, that she was trying for it at least. Where it would have suddenly come from out of nowhere in the wilds of Cornwall, toward Fanny of all people, and toward Susan a practical stranger, when she had never managed to dig up the slightest morsel with them there on hand in front of her, was quite the mystery. It ended with Fanny presuming that this late love, this erstwhile affection, probably stemmed chiefly from her aunt’s wish of being remembered among them. Or, even, to be back there, among them herself. Without reflecting too deeply on the realities of keeping house with Maria, Fanny could easily conclude that her aunt had come to regret her estrangement from them, to such a degree as made all parts of Mansfield and everyone there – including even Fanny, and including even Susan – at least a little precious to her. How sad it might be, she thought, only to discover love through loss. It was a sobering, affecting thought, so affecting that Fanny gave her aunt credit for the feelings with no more proof of them than the wanderings of her own kind heart.

She was compelled, though, to consider this sort of love, in comparison to her own understanding of the word. Her own letters home, she knew, and to William at sea, bore postscripts much the same; she hoped that they didn’t occasion such mystery and contemplation. Surely her love for her family was natural and understood. She herself felt that it had been formed and founded almost without her knowing, tied up in all of her earliest associations — having cared for her, or depended on her for their care; having created in her either a desire for protection or a desire to protect in her turn. Her mother, fretful and anxious, imperfect, to be sure, but made so in part because of the commitment to caring for her, and for them all. William and Susan, of course, compounding their shares of her affection by their clear demonstration of mutual feeling, but never diminishing what she felt for any of the others, so that she was sure it must all be one great pool of feeling, family-feeling, that allowed her to give to them so freely, to enter into their concerns and hope she made some part of all their schemes as well.

It was something the same with everyone at Mansfield, especially now, having begun to be truly appreciated by them all, she felt that her love for each had only grown in the past year. In her Aunt Bertram’s sweet and tender nature, Sir Thomas’s noble mind and delicate heart, Tom’s bonhomie, and Julia’s growing sedateness, she found reserves of affection that swelled whenever Sir Thomas sought her out to canvas her opinion, or Julia spoke to gauge her interest in a plan. These feelings all had their varying depths and shades, but she felt sure of them all, and of herself having a similar place in their estimation, if any of them should ever choose to think it over in Fanny’s style. And Edmund — here she paused.

In the immediate days following Maria and Henry Crawford’s flight and all the horrible aftermath, it had been her pleasure, it had been gratifying to walk the lanes and sit under all the trees with Edmund talking over the whole business, not only of Miss Crawford, but of marriages and matches, and merit and morals, of character, and destiny, and the ideal management of a life for ultimate happiness. However, a few months gone, Fanny found her heart changing toward Edmund in was she was unprepared to confront. When, for instance, he had ceased dwelling on Miss Crawford in particular, her perfections, and the various ways the world had let her down, still he was able to speak only of his regret and disappointment, almost as though he had learned nothing about her or himself in the intervening months. She had known that Edmund meant to marry Miss Crawford, but had always deemed it infatuation, born of wishes and desires, a thin thing, she thought privately, when compared to her affection for him. But Edmund, it seemed could not be convinced of this.

And this is how our Fanny came to realize that her own passion for Edmund bore an uncomfortable resemblance to his feelings for Mary.

The thought was a heavy blow. A disputed one, to be sure, for some little while after it appeared. But this thought once sprung could not be shaken. When he continued speaking of Mary and gave her only brilliance for vulgarity, or merely charity for what had been mingled with shrewdness, she saw him plainly, winnowing through her character and blowing away anything unpleasant, leaving behind only what he most wished to see, and thus producing such a woman that he could never resist, a fully formed image of excellence. But too, dear Fanny, keen and just, saw herself behaving much the same way. She had been younger than Edmund, of course, when the goings-on began, so she gave herself that slight credit for the way her young heart had turned Edmund’s every kind action toward the purpose of creating affection in her, and had long since forebore to acknowledge the elements of his manner that she winced to recall, his tendency to center on self, to aggrandize his intentions, the occasional pomposity of his opinions. She understood at last that if Edmund had been infatuated, so had she been too, and that just as he had created a woman and an answering affection to match all his wishes, she had built him up much the same in her mind.

These were not sudden revelations, of course; no truths streamed over her like a shock of cold water. Indeed, these reflections occurred over many weeks’ time, gently urging themselves, asserting their sense, and allowing Fanny to gradually make peace with this new perspective.

But alas, poor Fanny, destined to know herself, and always keenly interested in the workings of her own heart. Hardly had she understood her errors in judgment regarding her affection for Edmund than a different affection began to grow anew. As she allowed herself to acknowledge, and to feel his faults, she necessarily began to know him better. She could call him flawed in her mind, and find the source, understand the impulse driving it. She could call him flawed to his face, and see his reception of her estimation, his acceptance of or struggle with her opinion. He might take offense when she named him self-involved or pompous; he did take offense, in fact, and occasionally defended himself with apologies made, or professional claims. But he never dismissed her. He considered, he argued and urged, he might acquiesce or disagree, but he engaged with her, continued bringing his concerns to her, and never shied away from her despite this newfound frankness. He could even laugh at himself, she found, when she noted that his objections to an eventual curate at Thornton Lacey were in direct conflict with the strictures he made about preaching in residence only months before. He no longer sought to excuse himself from his own high standards, but in all other respects he remained his same excellent self – a most considerate brother and son, a committed rector, a compassionate friends with pleasures and values closely in tune with her own, and a heart full of sterling good. And all this apart from the affection and consideration that he invariably showed her. It was a hopeless business. Fanny no longer depended on the Edmund she had made up to match her desires, but poor dear, she found that she still desired Edmund, his own natural self.

Fortunately, this was a state Fanny knew well how to endure; she knew of old how best to meet Edmund’s affection where it was. And just as fortunately, Mansfield itself had likewise proved so changeable that she no longer depended solely on Edmund’s affection to feel herself at home there. Here we return to Fanny and her thoughts for her absent aunt, wondering at the nature, the strength of this peculiar love, if love it could be called, that seemed wholly born of lack. If Mrs. Norris were to find herself there at Mansfield again, would she still feel it all, or would other emotions overcome this? How different again, she thought, to her feeling for Edmund. She could call it love, she thought, from anywhere in the kingdom, though he might at any time depart from them or choose a new match for himself; though impressed more forcefully than ever with the conviction that his fondness for her was of a very different sort.

“Fanny!”

She was drawn from these poignant thoughts by Edmund’s cheerful call, and raised an arm to greet him. He jogged to meet her, immediately taking the same arm.

“Miss Pettit saw you walking this way. I am glad. I am off, but I wouldn’t go without taking leave of you, since I won’t see you again before the grand event." He smiled, and it was returned. “But is anything the matter? You looked rather anxious when I hailed you just now.”

“No, Edmund, I am perfectly well. I will be better once the — as you say, the grand event is done and your brother is breathing easier, but I am less involved and thus far more sanguine than he is. I have nothing in particular worrying me.”

“Ah, but I know Tom has been trying you as much as anyone else with this pantomime business. Or more than anyone else, I expect, as you are always so reliably on hand, a ready-made font of patience.” He again flashed her a small smile. “I was of course cast as general dogsbody, even now given one last commission about a podium to be placed for remarks. If it’s up to me, I hope he’ll be satisfied with a horse crate, for that is what I have on hand. Fanny laughed softly, and Edmund smiled again. “There. That is much better than the brow I found you with. And I know this whole ordeal can’t be as much strain as all that, surely? Everyone must know that it is intended as an amateur entertainment, given out of good will for the neighborhood. It will all be well.”

Fanny’s breast warmed at the note of care in his voice. “You are mistaken,” she said, shortening her step and turning them back toward the garden. “I really am not troubled by anything at all, especially not this play. It will likely be more ridiculous than anything, but everyone seems to be either committed to it or anticipating it with the same fervor. Only you happened upon me as I was thinking.” His eyes widened with interest, but he was silent, and Fanny went on. “You know my Aunt Bertram had a letter from Aunt Norris some days ago. And in it, she seemed almost kind. Certainly, very warm. She conveyed her love to me and to Susan. I was only thinking–” she colored slightly remembering some of the ideas of love she had been contemplating – “I was thinking of what might have worked such a change in her, so soon, and without any effort on our part. She is so secluded there in Cornwall.” Edmund was quiet, considering what she had said. “I believe she misses Mansfield very much. I believe she misses you all quite dearly.”

Finally, he glanced at her sidelong. “And she clearly misses you as well. It is no great mystery. I do not have the delicacy of a Fanny Price, so I will not scruple to say that my aunt’s living with Maria and depending entirely on her for comfort has probably taught her to appreciate the superiority of your nature. There is something to be said for an unfailingly kind heart in an intelligent woman. If my aunt now finds that in you worthy of affection she was unwilling to conceive before, then I am glad for her, but I am not surprised.” Fanny was proud of the composure with which she met this high praise, but Edmund seemed unaware of having said anything out of the ordinary as he smiled broadly at her, gently squeezing her arm as he continued. “For myself, though, I am certain that my aunt did not devote half the scrutiny to her words as you have done. It proves her point, however; you seek to do her justice, to find kindness in her though she gave you no reason, and never made a friend of you before. You are very good, my very dear Fanny.”

Their walking had returned them to the garden, and Edmund began to take his leave. “I shall see you tomorrow evening, and wish you Happy Christmas until then. Tell my brother not to worry after his podium, or his actors for that matter, or costumes or scenes. Nor should you, or Susan, though you disclaim all anxieties of that kind.” He peered briefly into her face. “I have not engaged in quite this sort of performance, but grant me a speaker’s privilege to assure you that whatever may have gone wrong, when brought to the point, it all comes off well. People are always good on the day.” She acknowledged his encouragement, and he pressed her hand and briefly kissed it, and was off.

Edmund was nearer to being right than he had any right to be, having, as he had acknowledged, only around three dozen sermons on his tally of performances. But ultimately, his well-meaning reassurances did turn out to be correct. No fretfulness or forgetfulness appeared among the players, no disasters befell the cavorting cat, only good will emanated from their audience. Even a suitable lectern had been magicked from an old schoolhouse. The enterprise was immediately pronounced a success, and Tom was highly rated by his public. He was approved even, by the stricter, more refined theatrical tastes of his brother in law. And he was approved, even more importantly, by the stricter, more correct standards of his father, who had been glimpsed during the extended scullery thumping his chest to restore breath from his laughter when the cat overturned a barrel of flour, and who took almost as much pleasure again in describing the whole for his lady, as she remained behind, pledging to take care of Julia while Julia assured them all that they would each be well in hand.

Over a very merry Christmas dinner, Sir Thomas stamped the whole a pure triumph for his son; he was heartily seconded, thirded, and fourthed from the chorus of young people gathered around him. Fanny and Susan each came in for their shares of compliments and gratitude, and the evening passed with only Fanny, probably, pondering and privately exclaiming at the changes that had come over them all to produce such an evening at Mansfield Park.

*** 

The following day passed quickly. Edmund had asked for Fanny’s assistance in doing the honours of St. Stephen’s Day in his parish, and after a very early breakfast with just Sir Thomas for company, they departed for Thornton Lacey on horseback. A year ago, Fanny might have quailed at a seven miles’ journey in front of them on a fine, but brisk winter day, but today she felt the fullness of her strength, almost a warm glow of health as the coachman helped her to mount. She supposed it was health anyway. Edmund too might be called glowing, or brimming over at least, with bonhomie. She remarked on it once they had set their pace and had leisure for conversation.

“I suppose I am cheerful today,” he said, flashing her a grin. “But I have enough reason for being so.”

She looked at him questioningly, but did not question him. He added shortly after, “I hope it is not so out of character in me that it should be remarked on.”

“Of course not; I only noted it because I assume you are looking forward as I am about our day’s efforts. You needn’t worry, I make no reflections on your nature in general, but today you do seem very pleased indeed.”

“You are correct Fanny. I’ve been anticipating this day for some time. I am very ready to fling open the boxes and see what my young parish has done.” He thought briefly about what other delights the day might bring, a whole afternoon of Fanny’s company to himself, well, mostly to himself. The preceding week had been quite hectic, riding hither and yon for Tom’s benefit, conducting his circuit of holiday visits, and fretting about his Christmas sermon; it had left him somewhat cut off from all the goings-on at Mansfield. Edmund was happy in his home, but after such a week, cut off from all the goings-on at Mansfield, several hours together of Fanny’s gentle society was just the tonic his spirits needed.

“I am glad you are happy at Thornton Lacey,” Fanny was saying, intuiting his thoughts in the way Edmund always found fascinating, if not a little alarming. “You are sadly missed of course at Mansfield, but for my part I cannot resent Thornton for taking you away when you have gone for such a purpose.” 

“Your approval is highly gratifying, Fanny. I’m hardly gone, though,” he grinned. “Although in this last little while my brother has contrived to have me ranging the ends of the earth at all times, you know that I am at Mansfield half the time.”

“Certainly Edmund. You must know better than I can tell you that Mansfield is always your home,” she finished softly, a slight blush forming.

“I think not, Fanny,” Edmund returned lightly, diverting her before any grave reflections could enter. “I imagine there is no one better able to say who or what belongs at Mansfield Park.”

At this, the blush was fully bloomed, and Fanny managed to smile in response.

A short while later, the morning sun was full and bright as they rode up to Edmund’s stables. He leapt swiftly off his hunter and turned to help Fanny dismount. It was done in a trice, yet the sensation lingered even as he helped her into the house, and into the welcoming sphere of his housekeeper.

This good Mrs. Daniel had prepared for them well. After Fanny refreshed herself from the ride, she emerged to find a small collation of tea set for them. After seeing them fed and revived, the lady bustled off for the day with Edmund’s well wishes, and he and Fanny made their way to the church.

Fanny used the short walk to calm her nerves. When Edmund had made for her company on this day, she had been a little overcome, that she should be trusted with such a duty. It was quite a charge, and she thought of whether she was the person to meet it, if her retiring nature would make her awkward there, and whether Edmund might not have had another woman in mind when he made the request. A Mary Crawford would be an asset here after a fashion, and Fanny could finally admit to herself that, while she would probably not have made the wife that Edmund needed, nor was she the villain that Fanny had cast her as for too long. Though her morals might vary, she was kind in her way, was decisive and assertive, and full of wit and zest that seemed to turn anything with a hint of awkwardness into a successful social occasion. No doubt Mary would shine here. But, there had been something in Edmund's eyes when he asked her, a fond dependence on her goodness, she thought, that made her agree to participate with pleasure. Fanny had been glad to feel new proof of her own importance with him, to find that his affection hadn’t been diminished by any of the changes in the way they related to each other. As they met the small crowd already gathered at the church, however, these feelings gave way to more spiritual ones. She watched Edmund break open the alms box with a smile of glee and felt that her countenance must mirror his own. It was something to see the flow of goodwill and generosity abounding, and Fanny rose to the occasion with more than usual spirit, distributing coins, linens, food and clothing and receiving warm thanks in return. Her heart felt light, and she only lamented that she had not more at hand to give. She wished she might have such a task set for her every day of her life, and said as much to Edmund. If she also wished to have the same company participating with her in this eternal project, she kept those reflections to herself.

Edmund closed the box at three o’clock, and made a speech of thanks to all the parishioners who had gathered to give and to receive. It had been a full day, but he had grown used to these sorts of exertions, and grateful for them. Never in his life had Edmund felt so worthy, and so fulfilled as now; never felt so active, so decisive, so responsible for the happiness and prosperity of so many. Before his ordainment, he had often thought of his life as insignificant—his living had been given, and his connections had ensured his future with little effort on his part. But now he felt such a strong sense of accomplishment every day, it filled him with gratitude, humility, and hope. He was highly gratified too, to see how quickly Fanny had taken to the role. He looked on with joy as she the morning went on and her comfort seemed only to grow. She shrank from no one, and quite the reverse, drew them to her with her earnest eyes and the warm expressions she was constantly making in her gentle voice. He was proud to see this energy blossoming in her, full knowing he had little to do with it. He could not help but compare her with another woman; his thoughts would not be controlled. He tried to place Mary there in the church garden, but he instantly knew that she would not have been happy there, and he would’ve been wrong to try to make her so. Mary’s charity had its own limits; she knew them well and had never hidden them from him. Instead, he had merely looked past them, merely kept staring into her lovely eyes, hearing her musical laugh and engaging with her in the wry banter that called it forth, and hoping for her to suddenly turn into a completely different woman. But he had finally realized that it wouldn’t do; that the woman he desired would have been eager for these tasks, entering into the service gladly, without needing the aid of facetiousness or snide quips to make the medicine go down. He had of late begun picturing this woman with soft, light eyes, but did his best to quiet those thoughts and their tendency. 

It had not escaped Edmund in the past year, and especially over the course of the summer and autumn, that something had changed in his relations with Fanny. At certain points, he had begun to doubt whether he understood her at all, so critical she might suddenly seem, so censorious of him as he struggled with the last of his abortive passion for Mary Crawford. She had sometimes accused him of selfishness, of rationalizing to paint the fairest face on the outcome he wanted. These judgments were extremely painful, and it was not immediately that he could admit them. But as they came from such a wise reckoner as Fanny, one who knew him better than perhaps any other, he could not disregard her criticisms, he must assess them, to take them up, and in so doing discover their source, the mind of the woman who could level such notions at him when no one else ever had. The end result of these struggles gave him rich fodder for thought, and new foundation for affection, in plotting Fanny’s mind and heart anew, and forcing him to reconsider what he knew of her, alongside these new pictures of her dissatisfactions, her resentments, her tempers. He felt he was coming close to understanding something of her that he felt had been obscured from his notice. It might even all end in his finally discovering the roots of her inability to fairly estimate Mary Crawford, for try as he might, he never had worked out why Fanny’s reactions to her were so extreme. He supposed that this vagary was just one more shade of the complex whole, simply a mystery that added to Fanny’s fascinating self.

*** 

The rest of December trickled past in a busy blur of calls, dinners, and devotion. Mansfield welcomed in the New Year with joy and negus, and as the hours wound round to morning, Susan proposed a party in honor of Twelfth Night.

“We used always to have them in Portsmouth, at one place or another, but my father is very proud of my mother’s cake and often contrived to set the scene at our house. I remember it being one of the few times in the year I was able to see him merry, but he would be as fierce at the Snapdragon pot as any child in the room, and elbowing his way in so no others could have room. Fanny, I am sure you must remember.” She sighed quietly as Fanny clasped her hand assented with a nod. “I like to think of them all, miles off, still up to the same tricks. It would be something to have us all engaging in the same amusements along with them.”

It was an image of amiable family feeling and tradition that Sir Thomas could not but value, and finding similar enthusiasm among his young crowd, he was determined to indulge his young niece’s half-formed wish in his characteristic style. A Mansfield Twelfth Night would not, perhaps, match a Portsmouth one for revelry, but it would undoubtedly be imbued with their own gentler spirit.

*** 

“No playacting for Fanny, perhaps,” Tom was saying with a teasing smile as the bowl of slips ran around the room and passed from Susan to Fanny’s hands. “I well know that it is not quite to her taste.”

Fanny was, in fact, beginning to wonder whether she would participate in the role exchange; she thought it might be too much of a trial to make up a whole new self, and remember to be her throughout the evening. She eyed the bowl with skepticism, but Edmund suddenly spoke.

“Come now, Fanny,” he said, meeting her eyes. “You cannot refuse when there is no audience here, and only those who love you all engaged in the same folly. You must choose a role. It is now your day to be good.”

“Hear, hear!” Mr. Yates called from his spot near the fire.

“My manager is correct,” Fanny said with a small smile, still gripping the bowl. “I would never appear on one of his stages. However, as little as I like the idea of an audience laughing at me, I would not deny my family the pleasure.” She passed the bowl on to Miss Pettit for choosing and opened her own slip to read “QUEEN” printed in neat bold lettering.

“Ah,” said Susan, mirthfully plucking the slip from her fingers. “Miss Candour is happy to introduce to all assembled the Queen of our little evening.” At her words, heads rose and general smiles were turned their way. Tom raised his glass to her, and Edmund followed suit. “Long may she reign,” Susan said with a laugh, and her hearers refrained from comment on the pinkening of the queen’s cheeks.

Cake sliced and punch passed, our revelers eventually began looking around for what should fill their evening next.

“We have no king,” Julia said, peering into the bowl at the slips remaining, “So, Queen Fanny, you must tell us what is to be next.”

Fanny dissembled. “I hadn’t thought of what might please. Perhaps my aunt has something in mind, or my uncle?”

“A Lofty Lady, no matter how lofty, cannot speak for a queen!” Tom, cup in hand, thoroughly enjoying himself as a knight, drew near Fanny’s seat and knelt before her. “And, your majesty will forgive me, but if you have somehow fallen under the sway of Stingy Simon, then I will be forced to make off with his head.” With this last speech, Tom cut his eyes toward his father with theatrical malevolence, and everyone applauded. Yates added a whistle for good measure.

“A song then,” Fanny cried, beginning to feel her own mirth. “Some one or two of you will give us a song.”

“I will gladly play for you, my queen,” Lady Baltimore said, rising from her chair, “but my little brain will never manage to recall the song’s words and the tune as well. Miss Candour, would you oblige me?”

Susan quickly assented to the request, and once at the piano they began their attack. Fanny was familiar with Susan’s indifferent singing, but joined with Lady Baltimore's playing no particular skill was needed to make the two or three carols they offered quite charming. More might have been accepted from the pair even, had Fanny not directed at the close of the third song that they should all play at charades.

“Our queen has found her crown,” Edmund said with a small smile.

Their companies formed rather quickly. Susan, Edmund, Lady Baltimore, and Mr. Pettit battled Tom, Yates, Julia, and Miss Pettit for Fanny’s favor. The others declined to participate and looked on benignly. Tom and Yates surprised no one with their superior skill, Yates especially impressive corralling wild horses in aid of expressing constable. Edmund, notwithstanding his night’s assignment as Fool, had no particular genius for this sort of endeavor, but by their third attempt, Susan and Lady Baltimore had each valiantly acquitted herself and brought honor to her team. Their turn had arrived once more, and after making some vaguely feline gestures, Edmund and Miss Pettit sat themselves in the center of the room, a side table between them, while Edmund held a book aloft and began pointing very solemnly between it and his partner. 

“This is unfair; Edmund has previously practiced this scene,” Julia cried. He and most of the others looked at her questioningly, but Fanny did not. Her face flushed, she knew, and she lamented it, as Julia went on. “Why, it is like watching you and Miss Crawford over again.” A half-second too late, she seemed to realize what she had alluded to, and covered her mouth with her hand; she glanced hesitantly at her father and said further, “When we attempted to act before, sir. I only meant that their pose here reminded me of Edmund’s previous attempts to play tutor. Here,” she said, only slightly discomposed, “I believe Edmund and Miss Pettit are aiming at the poet’s lines about the horses of instruction and the tyger of wrath. Am I not right?” Julia looked to Fanny for confirmation and observed her heightened color. She was not the only one who noticed. Those who knew anything of that acting week might attribute her agitation to a number of very apt motives: residual guilt from a past error, pain perhaps in sympathy with Edmund’s feelings on being reminded of his loss, or even plain embarrassment on all of their behalfs at the thrusting of a new knife in an old wound.

Edmund, however, saw Fanny’s confusion, and instantly knew its real source. He had looked to her almost without thinking, on a reflex as Julia thoughtlessly referred once more to Lovers’ Vows; he had seen not only her flushed face, but briefly, for just a moment, a look of sheer anguish, of longing, almost of despair. It was he who experienced the shock like cold water, as he finally understood what had kept Fanny from ever really esteeming Miss Crawford to his satisfaction.

Fanny was insensible of any particular revelations or revolutions in thought taking place as she answered Julia in the affirmative and counted the point. The awkward moment passed almost as quickly as it had appeared, and at Fanny’s request they soon moved on to Courtiers, the teams dispersing, and Yates and Julia offering themselves up as the first pair to make matches. Meanwhile, Fanny exercised a queen’s prerogative, slipping unobserved out of the room and into the cool hall to take a few steadying breaths, to regret that a mere reference to Anhalt and Amelia still had any power to disturb her, and to make several wise resolutions toward better self-governance in future. But, she was unable to get very far in her efforts. She had been there only a moment – one breath taken – before Edmund joined her at the window.

She briefly turned to glance at him, but was silent. He too said nothing for several moments, but he gazed at Fanny instead of at the darkened view of the drive and the sweep outside. Eventually, he spoke.

“Fanny, I have decided to ask for your forgiveness.” This again drew her eyes; she was surprised, but didn’t reply. “I am not certain, but I feel that I must have caused you pain several times over. I thought it impossible that you could ever think of me, so familiar as you are with all my fumbling, all my blindness and willfulness, spending my affections on a woman who did not want them, and going round in circles to convince myself that she deserved the time I wasted on her. You are too good to have ridiculed or scorned me, I know, but how could I have imagined that you might ever come close to admiring me? I set it down as inconceivable, and that was the only way I could continue to meet you regularly without utterly giving myself away. I believe now that it may have worked only too well, but Fanny if you are – if you do feel – oh, Fanny, I love you very much, and if you feel even a hundredth part of what I do, I am sure I would be the happiest man on earth.”

Fanny was quite overcome at this speech, but Edmund was expert in the ways of Fanny Price, and waiting out tears for the sense to follow was no hardship. He could not take his eyes from her, though he spent the intervening minute wringing his hands behind his back to keep himself from reaching out. But finally, she did speak. “It has taken me some time to discover this, but I know it now to be true, that if I could look at you and see only errors, or see only what I wished, either too much or too little, then I would not deserve you. There are no pieces of you that I would wish away, or seek to bury. It is you that I love, Edmund, not in parts, and not in spite of anything that has passed between us.”

She could just manage to lift her eyes to his at the close of this speech, and she was highly gratified by the expression of elation illuminating his face.

*** 

I leave it to my readers’ imaginations to determine what reception our young lovers received upon their eventual return to the drawing room, what questions Susan must have put to her sister at the end of the night, or what deep discussions Edmund sprang on his father the next morning. All I venture to offer, and what you may take as the import of this meandering tale, is that a wedding – taking place between two hearts and minds truly matched – was decidedly the most effective way to spread festivity throughout a place and those belonging to it, and to make it stick. Witness Sir Thomas Bertram, previously the model of the modest manor gentleman, now courting visitors, doors open to all and sundry, and boasting everywhere that would give him a hearing of his good fortune in securing the fondest wish of his heart. And while it is true that the spring season might have a small role in painting Mansfield in this merry light, wildflowers here and young birds there of course, no spring that passed through its gates before had ever brought with it such suffused and sustained delight as the union of Edmund Bertram and Fanny Price on a fine April day left in its wake.

**Author's Note:**

> The poetry Julia alludes to in Edmund's charade is an excerpt from William Blake's Proverbs of Hell #9, itself from Marriage of Heaven and Hell:
> 
> _The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction._


End file.
